Epilog to The Fortune
by DocII
Summary: Casey Randal was killed in the episode The Fortune. Afterward, no mention was ever made of her again. This story is an exploration of the team immediately following her death.


**_Acknowledgements: A huge thank you to Aja Aron for taking the plunge and posting her adaptation of the pilot episode The Killer to this site. I invite those interested in further discussion of the 1988 Mission:Impossible series to join Aja and me in our Yahoo group MissionImpossible1988. _**

**_  
Disclaimer: Mission:Impossible and its characters do not belong to me and I am not being compensated in any tangible way for this story. _**

_**Warning: Read quickly, this story will self-destruct in 5 seconds. Good luck.**_

Epilog to The Fortune

 2005 Doc LaVigne

The sun had already slipped below the horizon, coppery bands spreading over the slowly rolling sea. There was still plenty of light, but it was fading quickly, the brilliant blue Floridian sky fading into muted shades of grey that blended seamlessly into the waves. The long arc of the route 1 bridge linking Marathon Key to Bahia Honda was distantly visible as the last vestiges of sunlight reflected off the roofs of a steady stream of RVs headed south.

Max Harte slouched in a deck chair, sandal-clad feet propped on the transom of the slowly rocking boat. He reached up to adjust his sunglasses, not removing them as might be expected in the falling darkness, but instead shoving them further up the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to take them off, didn't want anyone to see his eyes and ask him questions he'd rather not answer.

"Max?"

The voice was low, tentative enough to ignore had he been of a mind to do so. The IMF operative cleared his throat and crossed his long legs at the ankle. He waited, aware that his lengthening silence was bordering on rudeness. With a sigh, he tugged the brim of his baseball cap lower over his face and turned slightly, keeping within the shadow of the cap's bill.

"Yes?"

In answer, a sweating bottle of cold beer was pressed into Max's hand. He stared at it a moment, his mouth twitching into a small semblance of a grin before he composed his features once again. Glancing up into Grant Collier's dark eyes, he raised the bottle in a brief salute and then brought it to his lips, swallowing deeply. A sudden gust of wind buffeted the two men and Max reached out with his free hand to steady Grant as his friend and teammate hastily sat in the other chair.

"Whoaaaa, weather's pickin' up!" Grant shifted his weight, finding a more comfortable position on the vinyl-covered seat. He waited a moment for Max to comment. When the blonde man remained silent, Grant shrugged, taking a quick swig of his own beer. The gathering breezes carried with them a multitude of odors, some dank and salty like a dead creature washed up on a beach. Grant shuddered at the thought, pushing the image of Casey's lifeless body away before he could give it too much weight. Another scent, faint but there nonetheless, danced through the air and then was gone_. Jasmine_. Casey used to wear jasmine perfume when she wasn't working and often it was the first thing she reached for after a mission. Said it made her feel like she was coming home.

Grant glanced over at Max, wondering if he'd smelled it, too, but the big man was busily emptying his beer, tipping it way back and then resting the still cold bottle against his forehead. Aware of the scrutiny from the wheelhouse, where Jim stood watching, Nicholas and Shannon close by, Grant sat up straighter, turning to face Max. They were all worried about him, Collier knew. That afternoon the entire team had accompanied her casket to the airport, where it was placed on a private plane and flown back to her family for burial. If only it hadn't seemed backwards, like they were sending her AWAY from her family to strangers. Max hadn't said a word.

It was one thing, Grant knew, to work a con, knowing that the end result was worth whatever you had to do to make it happen. It was quite another when it required intimate contact with a person you knew had killed your friend and had enjoyed doing it. Max hadn't wanted to continue, even said he couldn't. Phelps had convinced him he had to, that he was the only one with the ability to access the tapes that would prove Emilia Berezan's involvement in Casey's death. In the end, of course, Max had played out the script with his usual efficiency. _But what had it cost him? _Grant shook his head; there _was_ no script for this situation.

One by one, the rest of the team worked their way to the back of the boat. It was a nice one, as usual, with room below for several tiny cabins and a kitchen and an impossibly small head. Jim had commandeered it that afternoon, quite rightly assuming that his people could use a few hours to themselves just drifting on the ocean. Grant and Nicholas had caught enough fish for dinner, Shannon gutting and cleaning them adeptly. Max hadn't eaten a thing, remaining in his chair on the aft deck.

Nicholas stepped deliberately between the two chairs, turning his back on the view of the Florida Keys and settling himself on the transom. _Casey._ She'd been special to him. With her exotic dark beauty and impertinent air, it had been natural to pair the two of them off during their various missions. On their first job together, bringing to justice the man who had killed Jim Phelps' protégé, Nicholas had found himself at a loss for words whenever he wasn't directly talking about the work at hand. Max's natural charm had saved the day, joking and laughing and teasing. From then on it had been easy, working together with his three new partners first as professionals and later as friends. But between missions, back at the college where he instructed fine young minds and where he purposely walled himself off from all things IMF, Nicholas often found himself daydreaming about Casey's wild tangle of hair. _Dammit!_

He looked up to find Grant watching him, eyes as vigilant and all-seeing as his former IMF team member father's ever were. With a sigh, Nicholas swallowed down his own sorrows and turned his attention to Max, who was hunched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and face hidden by sunglasses and hat. _Talk about walled off…_

Max continued to stare straight ahead, small muscles jumping in his clenched jaw. He'd allowed Grant to remove the empty bottle from his hand, accepting a full one with a slight nod. Resting it on his thigh, he felt the dampness seep through his jeans and shivered in the growing breeze.

Jim sighed, knowing this had gone on long enough. He needed his team pulling together, not acting like polite cousins at a graduation party. Two days ago he'd experienced the worst thing he could imagine. _And it didn't kill me_. Tom Copperfield's death, too, had unbalanced him to the brink of despair and yet here he was. Maybe getting older was the good Lord's way of rewarding you for learning from all the terrible things that happened along the way. _And not giving in. And knowing when you needed a little help from your friends._

"Okay, I think we need to talk about this."

Max was on his feet in one fluid movement. Although even he couldn't remember how many beers he'd consumed throughout the afternoon, he was as cold stone sober as a choirboy. Spinning to face his team leader, he reached up to remove his glasses and his hat, tossing them into the abandoned deck chair where they bounced unnoticed to the deck. He blinked in the glare of the lights spilling over from the open door of the wheelhouse and raised one hand to shield his aching eyes, belatedly realizing that the hand still clutched his beer.

"Shit." _Maybe he was drunker than he thought_. Dropping the half-empty bottle into an open cooler, Max moved forward, passing between Shannon and Phelps. He paused in the doorframe, leaning his forehead momentarily against the smooth, cool fiberglass of the bulkhead as he closed his eyes, willing this evening to be over even though he knew that tomorrow would bring no relief.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I can't talk about it now." Much as he wanted to, Max couldn't completely walk away, either. He shook his head, feeling the pain multiply, ping-ponging around the inside of his skull. "I just can't." He looked up, eyes filled with despair.

Grant and Nicholas looked back at him, the former having moved from his deck chair to join his teammate on the transom. They both sat there, silent, dark eyes hidden in the shadows, the wind catching their clothing and ruffling their hair. The black ocean slapped against the stern, tugging the boat against its anchor and spinning it momentarily broadside to the oncoming waves.

Max staggered a step as the yacht canted to starboard, throwing out one long arm to catch himself on the cowling. As the deck returned to level, he righted himself and took a deep breath, not at all sure what he was about to do.

"I don't want to talk about Casey and what they did to her and how noble it was that she died in the…" Max swallowed hard, staring fixedly out at the growing white caps. "That she died in the performance of duty to her country. Or the world. Something." He sat down on the padded bench seat under the wheelhouse window and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head loll forward.

"I can't do it, Jim. I just can't." His voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper.

"It's okay, pal." Grant stared down at the deck. "But I doubt this is what Casey would have wanted." He glanced sideways at Nicholas, who nodded in agreement.

"No, I think she would rather we remember…the rabbit."

"The rabbit?" Shannon flinched at the sound of her own voice. She cleared her throat and tried again. "The rabbit?"

Nicholas was chuckling now, the glow from the yacht's running lights dancing in his eyes. He looked up at Phelps to find the tall man grinning. Max was totally still, his face hidden in his hands.

Grant stood, balancing on the balls of his feet. "Yes, Shannon, the rabbit. The rabbit that would one day rule the Harte household..."

Nicholas interrupted, the dramatic side of him surging to the fore. "First we'd better set the scene." He paused, closing his eyes briefly and resting his hands on his knees. "There once was a chess grand master who wished to live in a country where he was free to come and go as he pleased, to play chess when he wanted to or not, to make his own decisions about his life. But this grand master didn't live in such a place, no, he lived…BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN!"

Grant laughed as he reached into the cooler, extracting another round of beer, and passed the bottles around. He handed one to Shannon who accepted it as she moved to sit next to Max on the bench seat.

"Chess and a rabbit?" She smiled as Nicholas held up one finger, waggling it at her playfully.

"Just wait, just wait." He picked at the label of his beer as Grant settled back beside him. "A team of white knights was dispatched to rescue the chess master. Two of them, a beautiful damsel named Casey and a…" Nicholas raised one eyebrow in the direction of Max. "…and a rapscallion of a fellow were instructed in the fine art of prestidigitation."

"Rapscallion?" Max looked up, one hand gripping the sweating bottle of beer and the other pointing accusingly in Nicholas' general direction. "I don't even know how to spell that, let alone what it means!" A reluctant grin appeared and was quickly replaced by a mock scowl. "Should I be offended?"

Grant swallowed a mouthful of beer and smirked at his muscular friend. "Now, now. How do you even know this story's about you?" He shook his head slowly, letting his eyes gently close. His next words were murmured but just loud enough for them all to hear. "Such an ego, tsk tsk…"

They all laughed with the single exception of Max, but the tension in his muscles had eased and he settled back against the bulkhead. Twisting the top from his bottle he tossed it into a coffee can on the deck where it jangled against the evidence of the afternoon's drinking. "Okay, Nicholas, okay…carry on."

Nicholas nodded, warming to his story. "The damsel and the…uh…young man practiced their illusions under the indulgent tutelage of yet another master, a master of illusion." Falling silent, Nicholas studied his half-empty beer for a moment, turning it slowly in his hands. He glanced up, the wind ruffling his hair over his eyes briefly and then blowing it back off his forehead again.

Grant snorted softly into his beer, amazed at how the elegant Nicholas could sit on the back of a boat in a stiff breeze and still look like he was posing for the cover of GQ. _Jim, too, for that matter_. Grant could see him in the periphery of his vision, leaning casually against the ladder leading to the flying bridge, khakis perfectly pressed and oxford shirt neatly buttoned at the cuffs and opened exactly one button at the collar. In direct contrast to Max, Grant noted, as he turned his head slightly for a better view of the Australian.

Blonde hair plastered to his head, Max slouched back in his seat, jeans-clad legs stretched before him. His t-shirt clung damply to him, the sleeves rolled up over his muscular biceps. A blush of sunburn graced his cheekbones, save for a faint pale line where his sunglasses had perched. As Grant watched, he mopped the condensation from his beer bottle with the palm of one hand, wiping his hand in turn down his pants leg. Grant hid a grin behind his own beer, turning his attention back to Nicholas.

"The knight and the damsel worked hard, learning what they needed to know to pull off the big switch the night of the performance, when the Great Sandu would vanish the chess master before an audience and replace him with one of his own."….

Nicholas' voice, as always, was soothing, like a cup of hot chocolate on a winter's day. Combined with the rocking of the boat, Max found his attention drifting, sliding back to those two days in Prague…

"Your farm is magnificent, Mr. Josef!" Casey stood in the barnyard, admiring the emerald green pastures that flowed seamlessly over the rolling hills. In the brilliant afternoon sunshine, a few horses dozed, resting their noses on the split rail fence while a small flock of colorful chickens pecked their way through the lush grass. She wandered over to a little group of chicks only days old, laughing as they trustingly waddled into her outstretched hands.

The old magician smiled at his young charges, knowing that they were falling under the spell of his ancestral home, just as he had when he'd returned to it after seeking his fortune in a dozen other places. Resting a hand on each of their shoulders, Josef guided them inside, pausing at the door as Casey carefully set the chicks down and shooed them toward their cackling mother.

The interior of the farmhouse was deceptively rustic. Stone walls met with timbered beams and sheltered just as many animals inside as out. A large white rabbit hopped down the corridor and peered up with pink eyes and a wriggling nose into Max's surprised face. As the big man knelt to stroke its silky fur, the creature rose on its haunches, placing one small paw gently on Max's knee.

"I guess we're in Wonderland, Alice!" Max laughed, feeling the tension he'd been under since the crowds at the railway station drain away. Looking over at Casey's wide grin, he felt like a kid playing hooky from school. This was going to be more fun than usual.

"…and the switch was made. And other than an unpleasant moment when the knight found a pistol in his face…" Nicholas laughed, allowing his story to end. He upended his beer, finishing the last inch or so in the bottle. Handing the empty to Grant, he removed his glasses with his other hand, ruefully eyeing the thin mist that had accumulated on the lenses.

Shannon tossed him a towel from a stack neatly stowed under the seat where she was perched next to Max. "So, what about the rabbit? I thought this story was about a rabbit?" She turned to the Australian, gently laying her hand on his arm.

Max jumped, his startled expression making them all laugh. "I'm sorry, what?" He glanced down at Shannon and then at the rest of the team, shaking his head in mild confusion. For a moment he'd escaped the reality of the day, leaving his sorrows in the shadows. As he stared into Nicholas' dark eyes, and then Grant's, Max realized that it wasn't just a daydream; he really HAD lost some of the terrible weight that had been lodged around his heart. Just allowing himself the luxury to remember Casey as she'd been in life and not focus on the horrific events of her death had been a catharsis. And it had been his teammates who'd given him that gift, backing him up as they always did.

He stood, stretching in the sudden rain that had Shannon and Jim scurrying for cover under the flying bridge. Grant and Nicholas moved past him, too, although at a more leisurely pace, Nicholas briefly resting one warm hand on his shoulder as he headed for shelter. The spray kicked up over the railing, soaking Max instantly from head to toe and he laughed, tipping his head back to let the rain run down his face and neck and into his sodden t-shirt. Gripping the back of one of the chairs, he braced himself against the rocking motion of the boat, closing his eyes in the downpour.

Grant leaned on the wheelhouse bulkhead and watched his friend with a mixture of amusement and regret. He sighed heavily, allowing his body to sag against the wall and turned to find Shannon staring at him, her luminous eyes almost black in the dark night.

"It's okay, Shannon. He'll be okay now."

Shannon nodded, her gaze moving past Grant to the figure on deck. "What about the rabbit?"

Nicholas appeared out of the dimness of the cabin, a towel slung around his neck, and joined Shannon and Grant. "The rabbit? Oh, Max took it home with him. Smuggled it out somehow. I gather he was very good at his magic lessons." He grinned, reaching out one lithe arm to rest across Shannon's shoulders. Glancing out into the falling darkness, he watched Max stretch his arms out wide and then drop his tall frame into a deck chair.

Max smiled to himself, a Cheshire cat enjoying a summer storm. The chills he'd felt earlier had dispersed in the blood-warm deluge, his body feeling relaxed and fluid as though he'd been soaking in a tub. It still hurt, of course. He knew he'd never fully get over losing her, just as he'd never reconciled himself with the loss of his brother a few years after rescuing him from that filthy POW camp in Vietnam. _But he just might get through it._

_With a little help from his friends_.

- the end -


End file.
